June 17, 2003: I absolutely hate my mother. She is the biggest egocentric pain in my ass I’ve ever known. I’ve been wanting to do my hair (color it black) for months, and she is just so “busy” that she can’t find 30 fucking minutes out of her fucking busy life to do my hair? Bullshit. So, realizing that the stupid bitch was never going to to it (the passive-agressive little shit she is), I took it upon myself to find the developer, a timer, and all I wanted to know was what kind of bowl to mix the color with the developer in, so as to not stain any of my grandma’s dishes. She of course wouldn’t answer a single question. “Don’t ask me any questions!” she chanted. I felt like stabbing her with the nearest blunt object when she started asking me what kind of pantyhose she should wear on her interview. So I told her what she told me: “Don’t ask me any questions”. What an ass. Grandma is talking to me about my mom and stuff, I just finished all my back-entries. And she just left, right when I don’t need her to stop talking for a bit so I can finish. How murphy’s-law. I think I fell asleep in my room.
June 16, 2003: Flipped through the channels for hours, caught a Seinfeld, a Just Shoot me, and later in the night a Beastmaster. God, the guy that plays Dar is so fucking hot. I wrote in the book I was using for an abbreviated journal “You know you’re going crazy when you’re watching BeastMaster at three AM simply because he’s scantily clad, ripped, hot, and you want his cock.” later in the night I added “You know you’re in a fugue state when you start picturing Dar and his “buddy” screwing in every scene. In the middle of the grinding silence of the night, I caught a short film program on Thirteen (New York/New Jersey’s PBS), it had this amazing film called “Why I don’t go to the movies”, written by Paul Karlin. Amazing doesn’t even begin to describe it. Then there was this really amusing one called “Invaders”. I felt like masturbating to the memory of Dar. Anyway, I flipped to the “news” after the great short films, and saw this cool program about a National Women’s Football League, it was so cool, that would be sports I would actually go to watch, they don’t get paid or anything, they just go and play because they love the game. After that, I watched the news on mute, and listened to music. I tuned in for a few “human interest”stories and whatnot, but mostly rocked out. In the morning, I ventured into the kitchen, and Grandma was up. We talked for a while, then I retired to my room, where I got tired and fell asleep early in the morning. I woke up late in the day, my mom was bugging me to help install this air conditioner, it was still light out, but Grandma and Grandpa said that we needed to wait until tomorrow. I stayed up all night flipping channels, hella-bored, listened to music for a while, wrote some poetry about the vapid media moguls, drank three diet cokes and had two mugs of tea to stay awake during the day.
June 15, 2003: It was in the middle of the night, and my mom had taken an empty seat and laid down to sleep. Like I got to take a fucking nap in my aisle seat with no retractable armrest. She’s such a fucker. Anyway, on the way down in Newark I was losing touch with reality, my ears were filled with the searing pain of pressure, I was almost crying when my mom finally dug a piece of gum out of her bag. It was dawn, and I suppose it was the next day. After the pain of the pressure inequality subsided, and I had trained myself to breathe out of my mouth (my nose was running because of the plane air was completely devoid of moisture), the plane stopped at the gate. We heard Rose bark a few times, she (and I) were eager to get off of that flying sardine coffin. Halfway through the flight, I had taken off my boots, and tried to get as settled-in as possible. It would have been easy to lace them if the laces had been normal, but one side of each lace being cut off made it exorbitantly difficult to lace my boots. Everyone else on the plane had gone, and I was still lacing. “Could you do that in the terminal?” one of the flight attendants asked politely. I wasn’t in the mood to answer with a polite response, but another attendant said that she didn’t mind waiting, and idly commented on how she liked my boots. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like them. Met many who wouldn’t ever wear them, but love them still. Anyway, I finished lacing them so that they would stay on my feet (they didn’t look pretty) and we made our way off the plane. We went out of the security area, and proceeded to the baggage claim. My mom went to the special baggage part to get Rose, while I waited for our normal luggage at the carousel. Through the whole plane part of the journey, I was expecting to get detained without the chance to talk to a lawyer because of my bullet belt. Luckily, my suitcase wasn’t inspected or X-rayed. I got all our bags, and when I looked over where Mom had been waiting in line, Rose’s kennel was there, and Mom was walking her around. We couldn’t find a luggage cart, and Mom disappeared for (collectively) twenty minutes. She then commandeered a United luggage cart, after calling a cab from a pay phone. She’d gotten ripped off by the cabs that wait at the airport last time, and didn’t want to repeat the mistake. A baggage handler pushed our luggage outside on the cart, and unloaded it. Mom tipped him an unnecessarily large sum, but I suppose the baggage handler’s functiction was integral in our quest to get home. The cab showed up after Mom had disappeared to go call Grandma and Grandpa to tell them we were here. It was around eight or nine, at least in my mind, when we loaded ourselves, Rose, and all our luggage into the cab (it was a van cab) and got underway. I couldn’t tell if the driver was a megalomaniac, or if he actually did have a career in R&B. He disliked rap and thought it was musically vapid, as I do, so I permitted the possibility that he wasn’t pulling a Catcher In The Rye story on us. We arrived, and the driver unloaded our stuff. Rose got out, and had a little blood on her nose, we don’t know why though. Must have bumped it on the grate of the kennel. The driver left, and Mom and grandpa put our suitcases in the garage while I went upstairs with Grandma and tended to Rose. She was ravenously thirsty, and drank six pie-tins of water. Mom came up afterwards, and took Rose. I went to the garage and regrouped, bringing all our suitcases up to our rooms. I was so exhausted and tired, words can’t describe it. I rummaged through my stuff, put on some different pants, and after the hugs, a large brunch and tea, I retreated to the lounge chair in the back yard with a half-gallon of spring water and a cup full of ice. I wanted to keep Rose company back there, so she wouldn’t get too freaked out. I think I drank six or seven glasses of water before I noticed a hair towards the bottom of the glass. I drank two more half-glasses, drinking almost to the hair then refilling, then decided I was way too tired. I retired to my room (this was about eleven or so), and slept for hour after comforting hour. I was too warm in my room, and too groggy to figure out how to turn the fan on, so I plopped myself onto one of the twin beds in my mom’s room and continued my snooze. At around nine or ten PM, I woke up in the middle of a sexual fantasy dream about Royce. I went back to my room to try to go back to sleep, but to no avail. I got up and had the chicken and potatoes (I mostly ate the potatoes) leftover from the grand welcome dinner I was asleep for. At least my mom says it was grand. After feeding my face I dragged my body, still sluggish from the two days of hell downstairs to listen to music and read Venus Plus X for the night.
June 14, 2003: I woke the next morning about twenty minutes from checkout time. I freaked out and had a hell of a time finding everything I needed to brush my teeth, get dressed again, etc. I had the disturbing realization that on both of my boots, one side of each lace had been severed. It made donning them singularly impossible. Halfway to San Fransisco, however, I succeded in lacing them by using gum to seal the frayed ends of the severed laces. My mom was “tired” the whole way, and kept drinking this iced tea crap to try to stay awake. Hello, ever heard of COFFEE? But nevertheless, we got there in one piece. My impeccable sense of direction got us to the airport without a hitch. San Fransisco was particularly beautiful that day, it was completely sunny and all the buildings were pastel colors, I just wanted to live there forever. Anyway, we sort of took a wrong turn at the airport, but we just kept going and found where we needed to go after all. We got to the car return place, and cleaned out all our stuff from the car. We succeeded in fitting 200 pounds of stuff into a 100 pound bag (no, not literally, of course, but we still should have gotten the Nobel Prize in suitcase-stuffing. We loaded up two luggage carts with our stuff and Rose’s kennel (with her inside it) and headed off to the AirTran, San Fransisco International’s inter-terminal transport system. It’s basically a computer-driven monorail that circles the terminals. We got on at the parking garage, and circled to Terminal Three. The AirTran was very futuristic, with all the computer-generated “doors opening”s and “now approaching terminal two”s. We got to the right terminal, and rode the elevator one at a time down to the terminal level from the AirTran level. We met my uncle Jim there, and we had brunch in the International terminal. They had chinese something and I had Thai pizza. It was a different experience. It tasted exactly like pad thai, but it was pizza. May I reiterate: weird. “James” was called by one of his friends during our brunch, and he described my fashion and hair to his friend while he thought I was busily listening to my Discman. We then went through security (I was wearing my boots, so I had to whip them off. I thought they might give me crap about Navarre (my tree seedling) but they didn’t. As I made fun of my mother’s (lack of) intelligence one more time, she got all mad and stormed off and left me. I went and scouted out an empty bench. While sitting there, I noticed this amazingly hot guy walking up and down the terminal. Immediately I popped in my Closer To God CD, with NIN’s “Closer” as the first track. Absorbed in sexual fantasies, the time passed quickly. He had shoulder-length, slicked-back black hair, a black trenchcoat, black pants and skater shoes, and a guitar case. Label: Suffering artist/goth/hippie/skater/ maybe stoner. Well, he was delicious, and in my absorbtion with him I almost missed the announcement that the gate was changed from 72 to 73 or something like that. I had to go ask my mom whether we were checked in, and she said yes. While I did that, someone stole my seat. That pissed me off, so I staked out one side of one of the support pillars until they started boarding. Listening to Deftones’ “Change”, I entered the boarding line when my “seating area” was called. The hottie was right behind me! AHHHH!!!!! I could have died, but like, up close he wasn’t as hot, I got glimpses from a few reflective surfaces around the terminal and the jetway. I hadn’t seen my mom boarding or anything, but as I approached row 16, there she was. I was sitting right beside her. Oh well. She had wanted the mp3 player earlier, and I had said “fifteen minutes” because Mr. Hottie’s struts up and down the terminal had to be to “Closer”, or else the sexual fantasies wouldn’t have been as vivid. She asked me about the player, and I replied quite simply that she had never come back and asked for it. She obvously thought that I should have returned it after the fifteen minutes. I’m not her motherfucking butler, if she wanted it, she should have come back over and asked for it. Anyway, I started to go krazy around the third hour of the six-hour flight.
June 13, 2003: After my last post, I boxed Leslie up, and put her in the dining room, along with all my other stuff I had to store at my dad’s house. It took me all night, but I got my whole room cleaned out. The next day, I woke up to Brenda and Kurt helping my mom clean out the rest of the house. She had so much stuff, I couldn’t believe we did it. Kurt went to the dump I think three times with his huge pickup’s bed completely filled with garbage. Toward the end it got very amusing, my mom kept “giving” a lot of our stuff to Kurt and Brenda. She went and got our rental car, and I started loading up our suitcases and miscellaneous things that were going in it, like Navarre and his siblings (my apple tree seedlings). I was determined to get this stainless steel briefcase I had seen at RiteAid weeks earlier with my graduation money, but when we actually got there, I realized I didn’t like the handle and the clasps. After everything was either given to Brenda or Kurt, given to the Humane Society, or given to the landfill, we piled ourselves, our stuff, and Rose into the Cavalier Mom had rented, and we journeyed off toward Ukiah. I had no idea Ukiah was below Willits. Anyway, we picked up the pictures from RiteAid, I decided I didn’t want the briefcase, and we drove down 101 toward Ukiah. The Cavalier had a CD player, so I blasted everything from NIN to Oakenfold on our voyage. We arrived in Ukiah at 12:01 AM exactly, I remember that distictly. We checked in to the hotel, and went to our room. This stray cat was loitering around our room, and ran right in when my mom opened the door. It meowed the rest of the night, pleading for food. I felt really bad for it, but my pragmatism overcame my sentimentality. I was disgusted by the motel, not because it was dirty or anything, but because I’d seen UV pictures of even the most classy hotels, and sperm was covering everything. I slept on top of the bed, because I thought that hopefully most people did their dirty work under the covers. *shudder*. I didn’t get to sleep until really late, because Rose (our dog) kept barking at the loud people in the other room. Oh well.
